SOPHIE LLOYD // THE PICTUREDROME, HOLMFIRTH

Sophie Lloyd Shreds Holmfirth Into Submission

⭐⭐⭐⭐(4/5)

Sophie Lloyd @ Holmfirth Picturedrome
Photocredit: John Hayhurst

Saturday night in Holmfirth is cold, damp but quietly buzzing. Inside Holmfirth Picturedrome, though, it’s already crackling before a single note is played.

Support comes from BEX, a key figure in the UK’s current nu-punk surge, and she wastes no time announcing herself. Her songs snap with sharp hooks and confrontational lyrics, delivered with a blunt-force confidence that refuses to ask permission. There’s nothing passive about this set: every track feels engineered to wind the room tighter, daring the crowd to either step up or step aside.

What’s striking is her command of the chaos. She knows exactly when to ramp the room into a frenzy and when to pull things back, locking eyes with the front row and letting the tension hang. Between songs, she repeatedly demands the crowd shout her name—“You remember it, right?”—mocking them when they’re not loud enough, then grinning when they finally get it right. At one point she perches herself at the lip of the stage, scanning faces and asking people their names one by one, turning the barrier into a conversation rather than a divide. It’s theatrical, sure, but its fun and works brilliantly.

Musically, she’s all kinetic energy. For a couple of songs she straps on a bass guitar wrapped in what appears to be a homemade fabric cover—an oddly perfect visual for an artist who thrives on scrappy individuality. She is promoting these DIY crafts on her website as “Scallywags”. On stage, she’s in constant motion, bounding with cartoonish intensity, a pinky red-haired blur threatening to overwhelm a crowd more accustomed to classic rock heroics. Any initial scepticism is short-lived.

The set ends in glorious disarray: BEX collapses onto the stage floor in a fit of manic childish laughter, spent but victorious, leaving behind a crowd that’s been dragged—willingly—into her world. That’s BEX - don’t forget the name!

The house lights dip again. A familiar arpeggio rings out. AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” rolls through the PA like a dare, and the crowd roars before a single musician appears. Then she’s there—grinning, guitar slung low—joining the track mid-flow, shredding straight into the verse and chorus like she’s hijacked rock radio itself. It’s a swaggering opening gambit, equal parts cheeky and lethal, and it sets the tone immediately: tonight is about skill, yes, but also about fun.

This British axe mistress, known to many from YouTube rabbit holes and touring stints with Machine Gun Kelly, has outgrown the “viral guitarist” tag. Backed by bassist Iman Ahmed and the thunderous vocals of Marisa Rodriguez, she commands the room with the assurance of someone who knows exactly what she’s built—and where she’s going.

The set is a smartly paced blend of originals from 2023’s Imposter Syndrome and turbocharged reworks of rock staples. The originals land hard. They’re riff-driven but melodic, muscular without being joyless, and delivered with a confidence that makes the album’s title feel almost ironic.

Ahmed’s bass provides the glue, locking everything down with groove and heft, while Rodriguez proves herself far more than a hired gun. Her vocals soar, snarl and soften as needed, cutting through the guitars with arena-ready power. The chemistry between guitarist and singer is obvious—shared glances, perfect photo poses, perfectly timed accents, a sense of trust that lets each push harder. Knowing Rodriguez also fronts her own band, Marisa and the Moths, only deepens the impression that this is a meeting of equals, not a spotlight hoard.

Then come the reimaginings. “Enter Sandman” arrives heavy and precise, its familiar contours bent just enough to feel dangerous again. “You Give Love a Bad Name” is delivered with a wink, the crowd shouting back every word like it’s 1986 and they’ve been waiting all week for this moment. These aren’t novelty covers; they’re acts of reclamation, filtered through a modern, technically fearless lens.

Visually, the show is all business. Armed with a gleaming arsenal of Kiesel guitars she moves with purpose rather than theatrics. Every lick lands clean, from fluid legato runs to divebombs that flirt with chaos but never lose control. Watching her, it’s hard not to think of Nita Strauss—not as a comparison to diminish either, but as a sign that the guitar hero lineage is very much alive and evolving.

There’s an unspoken narrative Sophie Lloyd has quietly torn up over the last few years. Once framed—often lazily by male hacks—as the young blonde rock chic pulling flawless solos on YouTube in low-cut tops, she’s now operating on a far more serious level. What Holmfirth gets tonight isn’t a content creator chasing clicks or aesthetics; it’s a fully formed guitarist with authority, discipline and depth. The glamour hasn’t vanished, but it’s no longer the headline. Technique, tone and intent have taken centre stage.

Live, Lloyd’s playing does the real talking. There’s weight behind every phrase, control behind every flourish. She doesn’t just shred for spectacle; she builds, shapes and knows exactly when to let a note hang or when to tear straight through the mix. Watching her command the stage, it’s impossible to reduce her back to those first impressions. This is a player who can trade blows with the modern greats and come out standing—not because she’s looking flashy, but because she’s technically precise, musical and fearless.

And yet, scanning the room, there’s an irony that’s hard to ignore. The crowd skew heavily male—classic rock loyalists drawn by riffs and reputation—which feels like a missed opportunity. Lloyd should be the kind of guitarist inspiring a new wave of girls and women to pick up an instrument and plug in loud. She’s proof that technical excellence and stage presence aren’t owned by one demographic, and that rock guitar still has space to grow if the audience lets it. Tonight confirms she’s already broken free of the box she was once placed in; now it’s the culture around rock that needs to catch up.

What really seals the night, though, is connection. Between songs, there’s warmth and gratitude, a sense of disbelief that this many people have turned up to watch instrumental-heavy rock in 2026. The crowd responds in kind, loud and locked in, feeding back the energy they’re being given.

As the final notes ring out, the Picturedrome feels smaller somehow, like it’s been stretched to its limits and bent back into shape. This was an artist staking out space, rewriting expectations, and doing it with a grin and a flying fretboard. Holmfirth just witnessed a future guitar hero in full flight—it was loud, assured, and impossible to ignore.

Words and Photos - John Hayhurst